


Paklalat

by sapphire_deity



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Adoption, Domestic Fluff, Family Fluff, Fix-It, Mandalorian Adoption (Star Wars), Order 66 (Star Wars), Platonic Relationships, Rated M for Safety, au where cody takes over and sheev gets shanked, dad!Bacara, dethrone the evil raisin man, meet my sweet oc son, normal war violence, not ki-adi-mundi friendly, shiny oc, some body parts go flying, this is mostly fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:48:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28706922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphire_deity/pseuds/sapphire_deity
Summary: A delivery of Shinies to the front lines of Mygeeto isn't a new occurrence.Bacara getting strong parental feelings for one of the Shinies, though?  That's definitely new.
Relationships: CC-1138 | Bacara & Original Clone Trooper Character(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

The Shinies were coming today. The only friendly ships to ever come in or out of the blockade that didn’t deliver supplies, although Bacara mused that in the eyes of the Republic, it _was_ just another set of supply ships. His trusted captains were rotating on Mundi duty, making sure the General was distracted and not around to see the shinies before they had a chance to settle in. Bacara had heard that generals normally greeted the new men, but. Having a man who recognized their usefulness and capabilities but not their worth as individuals greet them was not the ideal. After what felt like an eternity at war, Bacara had learned: wellbeing came before protocol, wherever possible. 

He heard the familiar deep buzz of transports, instantly definable as friendly rather than the higher-pitched whine of droid fighters or the whistle of bombs. He stood, immobile, one hand clutching the other fist behind his back as the transports came in low and hot. Flak echoed, explosions rocking the ships. Maybe this would be the time they all made--

Flames scorched through the clouds as the first transport went down, still too far away for him to hear the screams of the men inside. The others used the explosion as cover to drop lower, trying to reach the platform in the smoke cover. Another three went down on the approach, a near record for low casualties. The remaining twenty-eight came onto the landing pad still streaming smoke from the downed craft. The doors flew open, several hundred men piling out as replacements for the eight companies that had been lost in the previous campaign. They arranged themselves by company, platoons and squads clearly delineated in front of him, each captain coming to the front of their company.

“At ease.”

He barked out, the men going to a stiff parade rest, discomfort clear in every tight muscle. Every single squad was shiny, there wasn’t a scrap of paint among them. Not even the captains had scrapes to their armor.

_They just keep getting younger._

“I’m CC-1138, Marshal Commander Bacara. That _Karking_ Marine.”

Scattered, poorly hidden shock.

“That was a low-loss encounter with the enemy. You’ve all heard of what it’s like out here. I’m not going to repeat the stories, assume they’re true. Our general is not evil, but he does not care about your issues. You have a problem, the line ends with me. I am your commander. _This_ is now your family _._ You are now Nova’s. You are now _mine_. The captains will get you paint for surviving the trip here and assign you your bunks. Dismissed.”

Behind their helmets he couldn’t read their eyes, but none of them were obviously shaking. Stiff, but that would fade. They would adjust easier if they accepted their fate quickly. He stood and waited, determined to remain until he could be sure the general wasn’t going to make a surprise visit. As the landing platform emptied, he noticed one of the troopers from the second company didn’t move with the rest. It almost seemed like the kid was looking at him still as the open area emptied. Bacara waited, watching the chaos of bunk assignments and speculating on why the kid was staring at him. He had narrowed down the options from ten to four when a tremor seemed to run over the younger clone and he moved to join the rest of his squad who had clearly been waiting for him off to the side.

***

“Hey, think fast ‘59!”

‘59’s head whipped up in time to see the pillow flying in his direction, hands snapping up to grab it. ‘60 smirked at him from across their corner of the bunkroom, having clearly been the one to throw the pillow. The others in their squad ignored them, busy getting their kit sorted out and bunks made up. ‘60, the only one of his batchmates to end up in his squad, followed the pillow across the room to sit next to ‘59 on his bunk.

“What was that staring at the Commander business earlier? You went to lala land again.”

‘59 heard the concern beneath the teasing. Weird meant different. Different meant defective. ‘59 was already on thin ice in that department and they both knew it. They both knew the stories of fighting past the Blockade. The Marines couldn’t afford to have a defective clone, that kind of thing could get a _vod_ killed out here.

“It was nothing, I just got caught up thinking about what he had said, that’s all. The image of him with the words was really...nice.”

‘60 heard the hesitation in his voice and jumped on it.

“Nice, eh? Got inspired by the Commander, ‘59?”

“Yeah, maybe. I’m not sure, I’ll see what comes to me after I sleep tonight.”

‘59 could see the question brewing before his brother even opened his mouth.

“Yes, _di’kut,_ you’ll be the first to hear it.”

A teasing light sparked in ‘60’s eyes, smirk taking over again.

“You know, if you put that creativity into coming up with your name--OW!”

‘59 shook his arm out to get rid of the tingles that came from elbowing plastoid hard enough for the body beneath to feel it.

“I’ll come up with a name when I’m good and ready, so stop picking at me about it, alright? You’re one to talk when you won’t let _me_ name _you._ ”

‘60 grumbled, but stood back up and moved back to his own bunk, finishing putting it together as the rest of the men came in for the sleep cycle...and started pulling off the mattresses? ‘59 watched as ‘60 walked over to one of the veterans and asked what was going on. The man replied too quietly for ‘59 to hear, gesturing at their bunks. ‘60 came back over to the eight of them, their Sergeant absent with the other CO’s.

“So, it turns out the Nova’s sleep in a pile, of sorts?”

***

The shinies had fit in as well as could be expected. His veterans were used to absorbing shell shocked and traumatized _tat’e_ , they nearly had it down to an art form with how many troop resupplies they went through per major assault. Mundi had barely noticed the influx of men, eyes flicking once to Bacara when they discussed troop placement for the upcoming battle but otherwise making no acknowledgment. He knew the _jetii_ knew about their maneuvering, he had to with his abilities, but as long as he didn’t say anything Bacara was content to leave the uneasy truce alive. The shinies had all been settled into the barracks, close enough to the sleep cycle for them to have a chance to rest properly before any major battles. Assuming they weren’t ambushed in the night. 

His mind drifted, making notes of which squads had seemed to be handling the new environment decently and which had seemed more in shock. As he walked he found himself remembering the shiny who had stared at him, seemingly frozen until he had snapped out of it. Bacara shrugged to himself, tabling it for later thought as he approached the barracks door. He had his own quarters that served as his office, but long experience had taught him the value of bunking with his men. The pile had already been formed by the time he got there, shaking the snows of Mygeeto off his boots and carefully stepping around sleeping _tat’e_ while heading for his usual chair.

A _tat’ka,_ one of the new ones, jerked upright near the edge of the circle, chest heaving but obviously choking down his noises on instinct. Bacara was on one knee by his side in seconds, grasping his upper arms.

“Alright, _tat’ka_?”

The kid looked at him wildly.

“C-Commander, sir, I-I’m sorry--”

“It’s alright. Just a nightmare. Got a name, kid?”

The younger clone visibly focused ( _blue eyes? how’d he get here of all places)_ on him, accepting the distraction.

“N-no sir, I’m CT-2259. Haven’t got a name yet.”

Bacara hummed, hands on autopilot guiding the boy to lay back down on his mattress while his mind tried to catalog his number for later review. 

“Well then ‘59, we’ll have to see about changing that soon. For now you need to sleep. It’s late.”

“Yes, sir. Commander, aren’t you going to sleep too?”

Bacara had stood, turning for his chair when the question stopped him.

“Not yet _tat’ka_ , I’m on watch duty for a while yet. You’re mine now, don’t forget. We’re safe for the night.”

Even in the dark, he could see as ‘59’s shoulders finally loosened, his body going lax and sleep claiming him at the certainty that he would be safe for the night with his commander watching over him. Bacara put aside the question of the boy’s squad, tabling it with the other items of note from his day. He looked out over the giant mattress pile covered in sleeping men, shiny and veteran alike. Blaster laid across his legs, vibroblade in easy reach as he watched the door, bucket on for optimal performance.

_Sleep, tat. I have the watch._

***

One of his commanders took the early morning watch, leaving Bacara with roughly two hours to go sleep and be back in his chair before the rest of his men woke. He had learned the hard way, near the beginning of the war, that waking up to find him gone while in an active war zone was Very Bad. He had resolved to never again have them wake up alone. Two hours of sleep was enough. He could function. 

To his relief, the men were able to get a quick breakfast of ration bars down during his early morning briefing with General Mundi. They had been commanded to further the assault and push forward the front lines, despite how tenuous their current position already was. 

“All due respect, General, we can barely hold our current position.”

“Ah, but that is now irrelevant, Commander, as our orders are no longer to hold this position but rather to occupy a new one.”

_General Mundi in a nutshell_ , Bacara thought and struggled to not leap over the command table to strangle the _shabuir_.

The briefing devolved from there as per usual and ended with thinly veiled insults being thrown by both men, Mundi eventually dismissing him with a wave of his hand. Bacara stormed out of the tent, murder in every clack of his armor and every flap of his kama around his knees.

_Di’kutla jetii, no karking command experience, get us all killed for kriff’s sake--_

Several of the shinies stared at him in shock as he passed by but he couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge them. Couldn’t bear the thought that his rage could be misinterpreted as their fault. Wouldn’t do that to them, make their last thoughts be that they had done something _wrong--_

He slammed down on the thought. They weren’t dead yet. He saw ‘59 laughing with his squadmates, the sight lightening his heart even as he turned in the other direction to check-in on the artillery bunkers. That reminded him, he needed to find out which squad ‘59 was in, and he needed to investigate the shiny who had been staring at him yesterday, make sure the kid was alright. Maybe ‘59 knew who he was--

He was halfway across the camp when the first whistle hit his helmet sensors. His comlink was open to the entire corps in a second.

“All units, incoming, TAKE COVER!”

His volume increased, making himself be heard over the falling projectiles as he bolted across the camp. Not toward Mundi, who was already running in his direction, lightsaber lit. No, he sprinted toward ‘59 and his squadmates. He had told the _tat_ that he would get a name, he refused to let him die now.

No time for words, he tackled the boy and as many of his squad as he could reach-- _only three, too few_ \-- pulling them under him as the world lit up in flames and rocks started battering his armor.

_Please, please, please._ He begged whatever power was listening. _Just let him get a name before he goes._ Before he could register anything else, Mundi was there, pulling rocks off of them and getting him upright. 

“Come, Commander, we must take up our positions at the front lines.” 

Unflappable as ever, Mundi didn’t even glance at the men he had tackled, still on the ground but already starting to move. Left without a choice, he ran after his general, leaving the shinies behind with the remains of his heart. He hit the first wall of droids with abandon, fists and blaster bolts flying equally. He could feel General Mundi’s judgement at his aggressive tactics, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. His general and his disapproval of his methods was the least of his worries when he had _tat_ to protect behind him. Maybe, as long as he held the frontlines, he wouldn’t lose all of them.

***

‘59 was laughing with his squad, watching ‘60 as he tried and utterly failed to do the blaster spin that Captain Rex in the 501st was so famous for, when he heard the commander shouting. Boots slapped the ground, a high-pitched whistling reaching ‘59’s helmet sensors. He looked up, looking for the incoming explosive but was unable to find it before an impact took him and two of his squadmates to the ground. Someone had tackled them, just getting them to hit the dirt before an explosion nearly deafened ‘59.

Rocks rained down, bouncing off the _vod_ on his back as well as the exposed parts of his own armor.

The rocks were moving on their own.

Weight off his back, squad staggering to their feet and pulling him up.

Most of them not getting up.

The Commander sprinting away from them, following a blue light that must be General Mundi’s _jetii’kad._

An officer directing them to the line, ordering them to hold.

_Good soldiers follow orders._

Artillery exchanging shots, shockwaves and explosions and too much sensory input.

Firing, over and over and over, droid after droid dropping with sparks of electricity.

Too much sensory input--no, _focus ‘59, you’ve got to hold this line._

Seeing the shell too late, ‘60 jumping up and shoving him away, screaming at him to run.

He ran--

The world exploded into sparks and pain and overwhelming blackness, the shadow of ‘60’s body flying over his head in three separate pieces the last thing he saw.

***

The battle had gone on beyond Bacara’s internal clock. Two hours of sleep did not cover a battle that lasted longer than 24 hours, most of which was lost in a bloodlust haze. That happened sometimes, blacking out in the final hours and coming to with wrecked droids around him, with him somehow still standing. A sharp shake of his head to knock himself out of it. He could see General Mundi already walking away from the battlefield, leaving the medics to do their work. They had successfully repelled the attack, even gaining a mile or so of ground to push forward the line, but losses were clearly heavy if the looks on his medics’ faces were any indication.

_Wait_.

Losses.

_‘59._

His head whipped around, frantically scouring the field for shiny armor. They were everywhere, some still moving, some not. He activated his helmet com.

“CT-2259, dead or alive. Squadmates too. I hear about it.”

Acknowledgments, unspoken threat heard and accepted. That done, he walked through the span of fallen men. He stopped frequently, offering comfort to a brother who lay dying or merely waiting for a medic to get to him. He was their commander, and all he could offer them was a word of gratitude for their service, a pat on the back and a promise to add them to his Remembrances to ease their passing. He had promised they were his, he would act as such. But even as he did, he continued to scan for ‘59. He knew better than to get attached, but he had known even as he eased the kid back into sleep that there was a reason why he avoided such close contact with anyone he could come to care about. It was fruitless when neither party would likely live to see tomorrow. 

Then he had comforted ‘59. Seen how trusting he was, once he knew Bacara would be there. Instantly dropping into sleep without a second thought. Faced with such a trust, such an innocence, he had doomed himself to caring. That one pesky thing the trainers hadn’t been able to purge him of: caring. The _tat’ka_ was his now, and the order he had just given ensured that every officer in the 21st Nova Corps knew it.

He was the commander, though, and he had duties to see to in the wake of the battle. The GAR didn’t care that he had taken a shiny under his wing, they cared about efficiency and work. That’s what they would get. Attending a debrief with Mundi, where he avidly avoided eye contact with the man and left as soon as physically possible. Getting clean up and the camp mobilization process started, making sure the medics had supplies-- _they never have enough_ \--, checking in on the men still living and mostly able-bodied, the list seemed to go on. He was a professional, doing his work and stabbing himself with a stim the medics hadn’t approved so he could keep going. He was in the middle of fielding requisition requests when the call came in.

“Commander, we’ve got ‘59 in the OR.”

The datapad in his hand was shoved at the nearest trooper, already forgotten about as he sprinted across the camp to the impromptu medbay. Nova’s parted for him, some giving him a nod, some yelling “ _Kot!”_ as he passed. A pause. A breath. Then pushing the flap open. He was met with screams, blood, yells for supplies, and the smell of antiseptic and bacta all assaulting his senses. A wave from the corner pulled him over to where ‘59 lay, being operated on by one of the junior medics. The kid lay on the cot, armor splattered with blood and scratches scattered on the floor around the table. The medic trying to sew up his midriff and slap bacta on it before he bled out. Bacara had seen wounds far worse, but this was his-- _just_ a kid, who he logically knew was far too young to be stretched out, possibly dying, on a table. Bacara himself was also too young, technically, but that was beside the point. 

He had other things to do in the wake of such a large assault, but. He closed his eyes for a long second before going to the corner of the room and sitting down.

_Don’t worry kid. I have the watch._

***

It felt like hours had gone by. Maybe they had. His ‘pad had been brought to him so at least he could say he was working while he watched over ‘59 in surgery. _Not that it mattered._ He had made it. Barely. Bacara shook his head, trying to free his mind of the memories of that horrible beep when the kid had flatlined. Twice.

‘59 had been moved to a different cot for recovery once he had been stabilized, and Bacara had gone with him. It was deep into the sleep cycle by that point anyway, and with so many men scattered in various locations, no sleep pile would be happening that he needed to guard. Instead, he had set himself up in a chair by the kid’s bed, helmet off as his version of taking off his kit for the night. The second that 59’s eyelids flickered, trying to open several hours later, Bacara laid a grounding hand on his leg. He knew from experience that the firm pressure helped lessen the feeling of nakedness that came with being out of your shell. No Nova took off their armor if it wasn’t for a sonic or armor repair or painting, not even for sleep. Yet another reason everyone hated the medbay.

Glazed eyes looked around, squinting at him.

“C’mmander? Wh’ appened?” 

He tightened his grip on his leg, leaning forward to help the boy focus.

“I’m not sure what happened to _you_ , exactly, kid. We got separated early on. Remember that?”

“Y-yeah...rocks falling?”

His voice was slowly clearing as he fought to wake up the rest of the way.

“Yeah. I had to go with the General to the frontlines, I’m sure one of your squadmates knows what happened the rest of the battle, if they made it.”

“I-I’m not sure if they did, sir. I don’t remember them making it very far. I think a shell caught us, maybe? I don’t, I don’t...know.”

His voice thickened, eyes getting glossy as he fought to not cry over his lost squad. And Bacara knew, it was all too likely that they had all marched away. The hand he had placed early moved, coming up to cup the kid’s head and pull him into a gentle Keldabe.

“ _Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la_. Never forget that, _tat’ka._ ”

The words finally broke the man-- _the child, Manda gods he was so young_ \--in his arms. Quiet sobs shook his shoulders as he fell back onto his pillow. Bacara, less qualified to emotionally care for another person than any of his brothers, put a firm hand on his shoulder until the sobs faded and the younger clone fell back to sleep. With the reassurance that the boy was alive and going to recover, Bacara allowed himself to lean back in the chair and drop to sleep himself, hand returned to its place on ‘59’s shin.

He managed another five hours of sleep, almost a record for him, before his comm chirped and he sprang out of the chair, blaster half out of the holster before he stopped to recognize his surroundings. Not even the medics glanced over at what was a normal reaction out here. Blaster back in the holster and helmet back on his head, he checked the message.

_“59’s squadmates KIA. Final casualty count sent to your datapad sir.”_

A report from his CMO, and as if opening the floodgates, several other messages from various parts of the Corps came in demanding his attention. With a final look at ‘59, he strode out of the medbay. He could not shirk his job for a single shiny, even--and perhaps especially--if he was attached to the kid. He knew the medics would watch over him, and his previous order guaranteed his continued awareness of 59’s condition. He chose to ignore his spine stiffening the farther away he got from medical.

***

Waking up alone was a new experience. For all of 59’s life, he had woken up with someone there. Even most recently, from what memory he had, Commander Bacara had been at his bedside-- _wait_. 

A glance around reaffirmed that he was, in fact, alone for the most part and the commander was not hiding somewhere in the room. There were other wounded, and the medics were around, but there were no batch-or-squadmates there to tease him for sleeping in. No Kaminoan scientist was watching to try and find something defective and worth decommissioning him for. No superior officer or trainer was there to find fault with his bunk maintenance. ‘59 moved carefully, testing to see if he could sit up--

“ _Kriff--_ ” what felt like a line of acid made itself known and forced him flat. Breathing carefully for a few moments brought his heart rate back down from the shock of searing pain that was now being very persistent. A _vod_ he had never seen before, in medic garb, appeared at his side.

“Now then, ‘59, right?”

He nodded, still just on the verge of catching his breath.

“Right. Well, I’m Scalpel, I’m the one that held your guts inside your stomach earlier. You’re going to be just fine, but we don’t have the bacta to spare to get you up any faster than 3 days from now, so you’re stuck here for a bit. Listen to me, listen to the other medics, and you’ll be fine as long as you’re not _dini’la._ Alright?”

Still reeling from the fact that his guts had apparently been _escaping his body,_ ‘59 nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

The other clone gave a satisfied nod, fiddled with something next to him, and left. And he was alone again, left to remember that ‘60 was gone. He didn’t know what had happened to his other batchmates, didn’t know what battalion they had been assigned to or if they were still alive. ‘60 was gone, the rest of his squad was gone.

He really was alone.

***

Bacara made it the entire day without hearing about the kid or dropping by medical to see him. Several meetings with General Mundi, most of which were just barely in the realm of civil and nowhere near the concept of polite, frequent check-ins from the patrols he had set up before falling asleep in medbay. It seemed that the Seps were holding off after losing ground. Slowly, oh so slowly, they were pushing them off the bridge. General Mundi wanted to wait a few days, give as many men as possible the chance to get back to fighting shape ( _finally an intelligent command decision)_ and then press a massive assault up the bridge. It would gain them ground, force the clankers into a retreat, but the losses would be...heavy. Bacara stewed through most of the meetings, trying to find another way to gain ground but unable to find one that would save lives and not be incredibly inefficient. In the end, he begrudgingly agreed with Mundi. He had a few days to get used to the idea, or come up with something better.

There would definitely be a sleep pile tonight, now that it was settled, but he had to check on the kid first. Pushing open the flap to the medtent, he saw Scalpel checking ‘59’s vitals and examining the wound on the shiny’s stomach. The swelling had gone down, from what his HUD could see, but it still looked angry to him. Scalpel seemed unconcerned, as he murmured a few words to his patient, nodded at Bacara, and stepped away. Bacara reached up, removing his helmet and holding it in one hand as he sat back in his chair. Which had not, oddly, been moved away in his absence.

“Commander, sir? Is there something I can do for you?”

_Ka’ra,_ he was earnest with those eyes.

“No, kid, you need to be recovering. Wanted to check on you, ask you a couple of things if you’re able.”

A small look of fear, or maybe concern, took over his face and was just as quickly smoothed out again.

“Of course sir, I’ll answer to the best of my abilities.”

“Alright. Your first day here, there was a soldier on the field who was staring at me. Do you know who that was?”

This time it was clearly a mixture of surprise and embarrassment, wide eyes looking at him.

“That, that was me, sir.”

It was practically a whisper, just loud enough for Bacara to hear over the beeping medical equipment.

“You?”

He gulped, expression open and young and so very frightened, words spilling out before Bacara could even ask him a clarifying question.

“I...I’m not defective sir, honest--well besides my eyes but-- I-I just get lost in my head sometimes and ‘60 always called it my lala land and I used to tell them all stories to help them sleep when we were cadets and I found out from the holonet that it’s called spoken word poetry so when I see something that inspires me I go to my lala land and start trying to put words to it and I saw you standing there after your speech and it just struck me sir I swear it won’t happen again I’m not extra defective I promise--”

Bacara leaned forward, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Breathe, _tat’ka._ I wasn’t mad. As long as you’re not endangering anyone, I don’t mind.”

The boy nodded, finally taking a breath at the end of the word vomit. A yawn abruptly split his face after the inhale, a blush following the exhale. Bacara couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Scalpel will sedate me if I’m in here disturbing you for too long. Get some rest, we need you healthy soon. The General is pushing the next assault once everyone is up on their feet again, so heal up.”

“Yes sir, I’ll work on it.”

He was so innocent Bacara couldn’t help reaching up and ruffling the curls at the top of his head.

“Sleep well, _tat._ I always have the watch.”

A sleepy smile and closing eyes followed him out the flap of the tent and stayed in his mind while he watched over the sleep pile in the barracks.

***

The next several days were charged with the looming battle. Bacara was kept run ragged, barely sleeping and without the time to check on ‘59 for more than passing seconds. Coordinating a Corps-wide assault across multiple bridges was no easy thing, and this promised to be one of the biggest ones of the entire war, Geonosis not included. It was on the last sleep pile before the attack that Bacara saw ‘59 walk into the barracks, back in his un-painted shell though still with the tiniest hitch to his step. Bacara recognized that kind of movement, where you weren’t sure if you were going to tear something if you moved wrong but the medics assured you everything was fine and in working order. He found his stomach twisting slightly at the sight. He was too _young--_

Again, chopping off the train of thought before he could spiral. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately so he made sure to catalog it, focusing instead on the kid who had turned in the direction of his chair. Bacara didn’t stand, merely looking up at him from where he sat, bucket in hand. He raised a single eyebrow when the kid didn’t say anything immediately.

“Commander, sir, I just wanted to thank you for coming by to visit me. I’m still not sure why you did, but I really do appreciate it.”

Bacara huffed, looking away from him.

“Yeah, well. I know what it’s like, having your batch pulled away from you, whether they be alive or dead. Go sleep kid, big day tomorrow.”

The shiny seemed to catch his discomfort, and merely nodded, moving away to curl up on the edge of the pile closest to Bacara. Bacara himself fell into what Mundi would call meditation, but what he called his battle prep mindset. Looking through his thoughts, cataloging his questions, his answers, his messages, what he needed to do the next day. A way to rest his body without having to sleep, even if it wasn’t as rejuvenating as sleep and the medics threatened him with sedatives whenever they caught him at it. The hours passed quickly that way, no major nightmares disturbed the pile in front of him and no Seps attacked in the night. A chime of his com brought him back to alertness along with many of the veteran brothers in the room. Their movement woke the rest, each man getting up, collecting his bedding, and donning his bucket.

He filed into his brain catalog that ‘59 still hadn’t painted his armor, although being stuck in medbay he wouldn’t have had the ability to regardless. Bacara breathed in. Breathed out. Turned to his men. Nodded once, and led them outside to where General Mundi was waiting. As they lined up, taking their positions and waiting for the order to advance, he opened his in-helmet com to the rest of the Corps.

“ _Oya_.”

And the battle began with flashes of blue and red blaster fire, the reports from artillery cannons, and a shout from thousands of lungs.

“ _OYA_!”

***

‘59 didn’t want to die. He wanted to be able to paint his armor, one of the last unpainted because he couldn’t in medbay. He wanted to be able to pick a name, solidify the idea that had begun to swim in his head while off-duty, find the right word to describe it. He wanted to tell ‘60 about both of those things when he said his Remembrances. He wanted to tell the commander, and thank him for the inspiration that started him onto the idea. 

_But none of that will happen if you don’t make it out of this battle alive, di’kut_.

A bright flash seared into his retinas through his HUD, laser fire just missing his visor. He needed to focus, now was not the time for lala land. He sprinted forward, following the line up to the bridge, toward the inevitable bottleneck that would form at the entrance. He braced himself alongside his brothers, saw the general and Commander Bacara near the front, shouting encouragement and leading the charge. He followed behind his commander, doing his best to watch his back. He trusted the commander to keep him alive, he could do his best to return the favor. He saw when he stuttered to a halt, spine abruptly straightening.

The Corps-wide coms crackled.

“ _Execute Order 66.”_

**_Good soldiers follow orders_ ** _._

Blaster fire rang out.

Traitor Jedi Ki-Adi-Mundi dropped dead, the final shot fired from CC-1138’s blaster.

Everything went silent on both sides of the battlefield. The Seperatist droids frozen in place, deactivated at the order. CT-2259 waited for further orders now that the traitor had been executed. The blankness of his mind felt like it should be a concern, for a moment--but no. Good soldiers kept unnecessary thoughts at bay. CC-1138 turned to his soldiers--then coms crackled back to life.

_“Marshal Commander Bacara, stand down. All units, stand down. This is your Vod’alor, Marshal Commander Cody, Supreme Commander of the GAR, and that is a direct order to belay Order 66 and consider it null and void. You are free, vod’e.”_

‘59 blinked.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pure fluff. Enjoy!

Everywhere Bacara looked he saw shaking men. It seemed like the entire 21st Nova Corps had collapsed into tremors and varying degrees of panic attacks and trauma responses. Clinical, unfeeling words for saying that the entire world had fallen out from beneath them in a matter of seconds. If Cody hadn’t…

Bacara looked down at his own, shaking, hands. He had killed his general, and somehow he wasn’t dead. He wasn’t being sent to Kamino for decommissioning, wasn’t being cut down and executed by the Jedi that he knew was aboard this ship, Cody’s General Kenobi _. _ Instead he was sitting on a crate of supplies against the wall of a hanger, watching the 212th slowly work their way through as many of his wounded brothers as could fit on the Venator. Physical and mental wounds alike, they were gathered up and brought along with gentle words and soft chiding. Bacara could only watch. He had done his best for his men, had done it for years, battle after battle watching familiar faces leave. He looked down to where ‘59 had curled up against his legs without a word, helmet off. They hadn’t spoken since it happened.

When Bacara had first sat down, ordering the medics away from him and towards his more injured, more damaged  _ tat’e _ , he had seen ‘59 standing, hands curled loosely at his sides. His blaster had been eased from his trembling hands but the push on his shoulder hadn’t gotten him to sit down. Words had seemed to do nothing, triggered no response. Eventually the medics had simply guided him to Bacara to ask if the kid was always “like that.”

“‘59?”

Bacara had reached out a hand to the kid. A couple of blinks and his eyes had focused on Bacara’s face, recognition coming through the haze.

“Lala land...sir. Sorry.”

He had sounded...not all there, so Bacara had grasped him about the wrist and pulled. He had buckled like wet flimsi, falling to his knees and then twisted to sit, had ripped off his still-white bucket and curled up to his current position against his legs. He hadn’t moved since, though his shaking had stopped a few minutes prior.

He reached out to the kid’s head, mop of curls with shaved sides he noted. They would need to be trimmed soon. His fingers, still in his gloves and gauntlets, curled into the shiny’s hair, careful to not catch any strands in the chinks of his armor. ‘59 lost some of the tension in his shoulders, turning to curl into Bacara’s knees.

“Commander?”

Years of combat and extensive training kept him from jumping clear off of the storage crate. The voice was no longer foggy, sounding much more awake than it had before. He cleared his throat, dry after disuse.

“Yeah?”

“Are we people now?”

Bacara had, for a long time, doubted his ability to still love another person. After so long seeing atrocities, seeing men come and go, he thought he had lost his heart. Feeling it shatter now dismissed that idea. He didn’t bother clearing his throat this time. The tears choking at him wouldn’t be dissuaded by it.

“We’ve always been people.”

The shiny--no, he wasn’t a shiny anymore, hadn’t been for some time, but he was still just a child  _ how do I process that-- _ looked up at him. Considered him for a long moment, eyes unblinking and still so earnest even if he wasn’t innocent anymore. Apparently satisfied with what he was seeing, he curled down to the floor, holding Bacara’s ankles like a stuffed toy and pillowing his head on his own arm. Bacara could hear his breathing even out, not asleep but still resting. A hard swallow, and Bacara tipped his head back, eyes slipping shut almost against his will. Cody had them, he had to believe that. He didn’t know what he would do if that wasn’t true. Maybe now he could sleep.

“Commander?”

His eyes unwillingly blinked back open, looking down at ‘59 who was looking up at him once more.

“...yeah, kid?”

“Can I get my paint now?”

Bacara blinked, eyes suddenly zeroing in on the fact that somehow, ‘59’s armor was still white, despite the scratches and small divots showing clear wear.

_ Well that can’t stay like that. _ Bacara heaved himself to his feet, waving a hand at ‘59 to stay put as he walked to a different set of crates. A few moments of searching, and some borrowed brushes from brothers in the 212th, and he returned to where the kid was sitting and staring at him with wide blue eyes. The brushes and cans of paint he had collected were placed down, and Bacara lowered himself to sit on the floor with him.

“You got a plan in mind?”

The answering smile, though exhausted, was triumphant.

“Yes, sir, I do.”

The next couple of hours, as their brothers were cycled through the medbay getting chips removed, were spent painting. Bacara did the large blocks of maroon on the helmet and the entirety of the greaves that ‘59 wanted, while ‘59 took the chestplate and pauldrons, rerebraces, vambraces, and gauntlets and set to work with a detailing brush. Finally, ‘59 smiled, arranging the pieces so Bacara could see. Starting on the right gauntlet, crossing his chest and ending on the left gauntlet was the alphabet in Basic. Reading the opposite direction, under the first line, was the same thing but in what Bacara recognized as the Mando’a alphabet. 

“Alphabets?”

There was no hesitation or insecurity that he could see on ‘59’s face, it was the most self-assured he had ever seen the kid.

“Language, sir. The two that I know. It’s always been important to me, and to my batchmates.”

Bacara nodded thoughtfully. Once the paint had dried he helped strap ‘59 back into it, ruffling his curls absentmindedly as he pulled himself back up onto his storage crates and ‘59 curled back up around his ankles. This time, his breathing deepened into sleep, and Bacara’s shoulders relaxed just a little bit more. Back to the way they were, but with one more piece of identity built to proclaim their status as people.

***

‘59 stirred when he heard Commander Bacara’s voice rumble above him, deeper than usual with what must be sleep, as unlikely as it was. A higher voice but still deeper than his own answered him. ‘59 drifted for a few minutes as the two talked, ignoring what they were saying and waiting for his commander to need him. The hand touching his shoulder sent him flying upright, eyes springing open and hand reaching for the empty holster on his hip.

His wrist was grabbed before he made it, Commander Bacara entering his field of view. 

“Hey,  _ tat’ka. _ Shouldn’t have grabbed you like that. Sorry. Cody needs us to move, it’s our turn for the medics.”

He waited patiently for his words to filter into ‘59’s muddled brain, confused from sleep and exhaustion and that terrifying blank feeling lingering in the back of his head. Finally he nodded, following the commander in standing up. He felt Bacara steady him when he swayed, not entirely with it; partly from sleep and partly from the blankness that still threatened to consume him.

“Picked up an  _ ad’ika, vod? _ ”

The clone who must be Commander Cody, scar on his face and all, addressed Bacara with a smirk. The commander swatted at him, muttering curses under his breath while he guided ‘59 toward the appropriate hallway. It took ‘59 half the distance of the hallway to parse the words with a half-asleep brain, but the words finally clicked, translation coming through and he realized what the Marshal Commander was implying. Heat spread across his cheeks and he looked down and away from the commander.

“ _ Tat’ka? _ Check in.” 

That was his commander, voice pointed and sharp with concern. ‘59 answered without looking up from the floor in front of him.

“He thought I was your  _ ad? _ ”

He hadn’t meant for the wondering, almost longing tone to slip into his voice, but it was there and he could barely hold back a wince at how he sounded. The commander stayed quiet for the length of the hallway, hands still firm on his shoulders and around his back as he kept him upright.

“You need to find your own identity before I influence it. You understand me,  _ tat _ ?”

It wasn’t a no. He clung to that, desperate hope rising that just maybe, someday, not only would he be seen as a person but he could be seen as a son as well.

“I follow, Commander.”

A nod, and then firm hands guided him into the medbay where everything became a blur of medical jargon and something about brain surgery. His vision went black on an operating table with a promise that the awful blankness at the edges of his mind would leave soon.

***

The kid was still out cold from the surgery to remove his chip. Bacara refused to let himself worry, he had seen just how tired the boy had been, of course he needed the sleep. As for him, now that he wasn’t a hazard to the general, he was being taken to discuss what had happened on Mygeeto. Bacara had already resigned himself to never seeing the kid again. Of course he couldn’t expect to get away with such a thing, he had murdered a commanding officer. 

_ Maybe Cody will be kind enough to leave a message for me. _

Steeling himself, he stepped through the door to come face-to-face with a  _ jetii _ he hadn’t seen since the massacre of Point Rain near the beginning of the war. General Obi-Wan Kenobi.

“Ah, Commander Bacara. Good to see you again and in one piece, you’ve been through quite a bit in the last few days. Come, sit; we have much to discuss.”

Doing his best to hide his confusion and ignore the fear, Bacara sat at the desk. Cody came around to stand at Kenobi’s shoulder, behind and slightly to the right. The  _ jetii _ leaned forward, fingers steepling.

“Now, I’m sure you’re likely expecting a punishment of some kind for the death of Master Mundi. Given what we know of the chips and how they function, we can safely remove any blame for his death from your shoulders so there will be no legal or punitive repercussions to you or to your men. It is an unfortunate loss, of course, he will be missed by many. But the fault does not lie with you, rest assured of that.”

Bacara wasn’t the most eloquent of  _ tat’e. _ It took him a bit to process what the famed Negotiator was saying, but when it sank in that he had killed a general and wasn’t being punished, and more importantly, neither were his men, he sagged into his chair.

“I’m not...and the men aren’t being punished either? Sir?”

A smile that held decades of pain came back at him.

“No, Bacara, none of you are. You are all victims in this just as much as Master Mundi was. No one in the Senate or in the Jedi Order will blame you for this. Any of you.”

The  _ jetii  _ was utterly firm, totally convinced in what he was saying. So much so that Bacara allowed himself to hope that maybe it was true. The man before him leaned back in his chair.

“Now, to more important things: namely, the fate of you and your men in the grand scheme of peace. Cody, if you would?”

His  _ tat _ stepped forward, coming to stand beside Kenobi.

“You heard my com,  _ vod.  _ We’re all free, I’ve taken ultimate control of the GAR in order to free us from the chips for long enough to get them removed with minimal Jedi casualties. Despite a few unfortunate losses and a whole lotta  _ osik _ , we managed to do it. I’m sorry you weren’t in the loop with the other commanders, but getting safe and reliable communications of that nature out to your position was too much of a risk to the greater cause.  _ Ni ceta,  _ for depriving you of the hope that the rest of us had.”

He paused, there, looking at Bacara as if expecting some type of censure. He wouldn’t get any. Bacara understood the mechanics of war, he would have done the same in Cody’s place, as regrettable as it was. After a moment of strained silence, Cody continued.

“Duchess Satine Kryze of Mandalore has no desire to have an entire army of men come to live on her planet, but we have been given the option to still become legally Mandalorian if we so desire it. More importantly, the Senate voted to give us Kamino. The long necks have been ordered to turn over all appropriate information and technology to us, and we get the entire facility where we were bred and raised. Several other planets have also offered homes for the  _ vod’e  _ who don’t want to live in the oceans. I need you to confer with your men, get a rough estimate of who will want to go back to Kamino and who won’t, so we can start expanding the facilities to fit the number of incoming troopers. They aren’t big enough as is. Any questions?”

Bacara was not, truthfully, mentally present, but he had heard his mission and enough of the details to form a clear picture of what was going on.

“Yes sir. Confer with the men across all ships, decide where we’re going, and report back to you.”

Cody sighed, hand coming up to rub at his face.  _ When had he taken off his bucket? _

“Yeah,  _ vod. _ I’m not your commanding officer now, nobody is. We’re all free men. Don’t forget that.”

Bacara didn’t reply, and Cody sagged slightly.

“Dismissed.”

Bacara stood, saluted the two men with a hand that was hopefully not visibly shaking, and left the room. He marched back to the medbay, saw that ‘59 was still asleep. In a haze he went to the nearest bunkroom and collapsed, satisfied that the kid was still okay. Sleep dragged him down quickly, where maybe his unconscious brain could comprehend the concept of having a choice better than his waking mind. Surely Cody wouldn’t mind waiting for a few hours to get his information, if he wasn’t his commanding officer.

***

‘59 blinked awake in medbay. Again. Brief frustration at having been wounded again filtered through his mind before reality snapped back in with crystal clarity. He froze on the bunk, making sure that he was actually remembering correctly. Looking around corroborated his memory, all around him were his brothers with matching head bandages, and medics in 212th gold markings caring for them and the occasional wounded 212th trooper. And the blankness in his head was gone. He took another sweep of the room, feeling like someone was missing--

_ Commander Bacara isn’t here. _

He knew they had come in at the same time, and most Venator’s had operating rooms for multiple  _ vod’e _ at a time, so why was he not here? He sat up, head screaming at him. Dimly he recognized that his pain meds must have worn off before he had woken up but he forced himself to ignore it. A 212th medic caught sight of him trying to get out of bed and ran to his side.

“Oh absolutely not, you just woke up. Lay back down  _ vod’ika,  _ you’re okay now.”

‘59 fought the gentle hands on him, panic mounting.

“Where is my commander? What did you do to him, he should still be here recovering shouldn’t he?”

“Commander Cody came and collected him after he woke up, he had an urgent meeting with your commander. He’s completely fine, he came back to check on you a little while ago and then left again.”

‘59 continued to struggle, terrified in a world without any of his batchmates, without any of his squad, and without the one person he had left to cling to.

“ _ Vod’ika,  _ you have to calm down, your commander is completely fine and you’re safe on the  _ Negotiator.  _ If you can’t calm down I’m going to have to sedate you, okay, so I need you to breathe with me.”

The threat of sedation ramped up ‘59’s panic, even as he tried to calm his breathing. Instead of deep panting, shallow hyperventilation took over and his body and mind felt like they were rebelling against him. His head shook back and forth, begging to not be put back to sleep despite his obvious distress. With a sad look, the medic leaning over him pulled out a hypo and held his arm still long enough to inject it. Blackness taking over his vision, he heard the medic talking one last time.

“Back to sleep,  _ vod’ika,  _ it’s all gonna be okay.”

He hadn’t dreamt the last time he had been sedated, but the blackness only lasted for a couple of seconds before it felt like his eyes were blinking open again. He looked around, expecting to see the medbay, but instead he was back in his bunk on Mygeeto, ‘60 sitting next to him. The rest of the room was completely empty, the only difference from real life. He turned to his brother, who was smiling sadly at him.

“I wish I could have learned your name while I was still alive,  _ vod. _ ”

‘59 blinked.

“My name? I don’t know it myself, yet. I wish you were here, I, I miss you so  _ much _ .”

His voice cracked on the final word and he fell forward, sobbing, into his brother’s arms. Soft shushing noises came from his brother as he rubbed his back, the scene fading back into blackness again. He wasn’t completely sure that he heard his brother right when he spoke again right before everything faded.

“ _ Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la, Paklalat.” _

This time when his eyes blinked open again it was to the sight he was expecting, the medbay of the  _ Negotiator. _ Though this time, what had woken him was abundantly clear. Commander Bacara stood at the end of his bed, speaking to the medic from before.

“You’re certain he’s fine? It didn’t look like he was sleeping easily when I came in.”

“Yes, Commander, he’s perfectly fine. He was merely a bit distressed--”

“Commander?”

‘59 spoke up, making both men whip to face him, the medic looking exasperated and Bacara looking a mixture of pleased and worried. The Commander came to stand next to him, reaching out a hand to his shoulder.

“Hey, kid. You’ve been out for a while.”

‘59 answered the unspoken question.

“I’m alright, sir, I just...got a bit upset earlier when you weren’t there. Thought something bad had happened.”

Bacara’s face seemed to fall for a moment but he smoothed it over in the next blink.

“Well  _ tat’ka,  _ we should be getting you out of here now that you’re awake. Isn’t that right?”

The last portion he directed toward the medic, who rolled his eyes and stepped forward to adjust ‘59’s chart.

“Yes sir, he’s cleared to go. If either of you experience any lingering discomfort or unusual symptoms I expect you back here.”

Bacara was already helping ‘59 up out of the bed, slinging an arm around his shoulders and heading out the door.

“Yeah, we’ll come back if something feels wrong.”

With that, the two swept out the door, ‘59 feeling a strange sensation of a weight being lifted off his shoulders.

***

Bacara lowered the kid down onto a seat in the mess hall. They had redirected when ‘59 mentioned not having eaten yet. Bacara refused to let the kid mistreat himself, even on accident, when he was around. Cody, who had agreed to meet them there, brought them over some trays, one of his men following him with Cody’s tray and his own in hand. Cody nodded over at the other clone.

“This is Boil, he’s one of my original Ghost crew. Mind if he joins?”

It was a rhetorical question, but they both nodded anyway. A small silence reigned, meals being scarfed down. ‘59 gathered his courage and spoke up after his stomach had stopped being so angry.

“Sirs, can I ask a weird question?”

All three of the other men at the table turned to him, though it was Cody who answered.

“Sure,  _ vod’ika.” _

“What does  _ paklalat  _ mean?”

Boil and Bacara both frowned, but Cody propped his chin on his hand for a moment, considering.

“I think it’s something like wit or eloquence? It relates to language and talking for sure. General Kenobi used it once to describe someone he knew. Why do you ask,  _ vod _ ?”

‘59 shrugged, looking down at his nearly-empty plate.

“I dreamed it, after I got sedated. It felt important, somehow? But I didn’t know what it meant.”

The kid fell silent, unaware that all three men were watching him like hawks. Bacara noticed his eyes glazing over slightly, lips moving but no sound coming out. He leaned over, forcibly making eye contact with him.

“Check in kid. Lala land, or something else?”

A slow blink, eyes struggling to focus on him.

“...lala land, sir. Gotta m’ve…”

Bacara pieced together the slurred final words and realized he wanted to move somewhere else. Cody and Boil were looking at him in confusion, glancing between him and ‘59.

“Nothing’s wrong, he just gets like this. Calls it lala land. I’m going to move him somewhere quieter.”

Both men nodded, but Bacara wasn’t paying them much attention anymore. He pulled the kid to standing and guided him out of the mess hall, steadying him as he staggered every so often, lips still moving. He managed to get the younger man to a deserted rec room near the barracks, across the hall from the bunkroom he had claimed the last time he slept. He let go of him once they entered the room, letting him pick his spot of choice but still hovering. ‘59 staggered over to the nearest couch and curled up, still mouthing words to himself. Bacara sat down in front of the couch, back to the boy and eyes facing the door. It was almost peaceful, sitting there with just this kid, who had somehow come into his life and turned it upside down in the space of a few days. His thoughts were interrupted when a sharp intake of breath came from behind him and he whipped around to make sure ‘59 was okay.

He was partially sitting up on the couch, staring at Bacara in confusion.

“You hit lala land and asked to move. You were done eating so I brought you here. All good?”

The confusion warred with embarrassment for a moment and the kid ducked his head, hiding his expression.

“All good, sir.”

“What set you off this time,  _ tat’ka _ ?”

‘59 looked up at him again, expression having morphed into something that Bacara couldn’t read.

“Would you like to hear it, Commander?”

Bacara pulled from his catalog to remember that the kid came up with some form of story or writing from the fits of his, then nodded, settling back to face the door again so the kid didn’t feel weird being stared at. Glaring at anyone who tried to come in was an added bonus. He heard the kid clear his throat for a second, and then began to talk. No, not just talk, his voice grew stronger, almost lyrical, gaining new depth as he spoke and pulled Bacara into his story.

“You know, we go to die without names, just with numbers, unless we choose--

\--for ourselves, you understand--

A name to go by. 

So.

There once was a boy--

Well. They were all boys.

This particular boy, 

His number was 60--

Because they weren’t allowed names--

They were decanted,

Not born,

With numbers. Just with numbers.

He died, without a name, just a number in a report.

Because he hadn’t made a choice yet for a name.

He had a brother, a  _ vod, _ a  _ tat. _

A brother with the number 59. 

Now 59, he was a little funny you know, always went away to a place he called his ‘lala land’

And 60 didn’t like it, got scared for him, for this brother without a name.

Was scared he would die without a name, like he did. 

So he reached out, after he died, because you can do that when you march ahead.

And he told his brother the word “ _ Paklalat”  _ because  _ Manda _ had given him wisdom.

59 didn’t know, so he asked, and he realized that  _ Paklalat  _ was him. Lala.

So at least he knew he would die with a name instead of a number.”

‘59--no, Lala, fell silent but Bacara barely noticed. He had curled over into his knees, clutching his head between his hands. When the gentle hand came down on his shoulder, he raised his face and realized that there were wet spots on his armor, wetness running down the sides of the plastoid. He swiped at his cheeks, scrubbing the tears off before he turned around to Lala. The boy was looking back at him, his own cheeks wet, waiting. An attempt at a smirk twitched at his lips.

“Lala, to make it easier.”

He tried to chuckle but it came out as a tiny sob and Bacara couldn’t hold back anymore. He lunged forward, pulling the kid into his shoulder, arms crushing him into a hug. Lala began to openly cry, shoulders shaking and Bacara only held him tighter.

“ _ Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad, Lala. _ Shh,  _ ad’ika,  _ I have you.  _ Buir  _ has you.”

Lala clutched him, sobs growing heavier at Bacara’s words. The two stayed there, Bacara gently shushing his son as the boy cried himself to exhaustion and fell asleep. Once he was certain Lala wouldn’t wake up on being moved, Bacara slowly stood, holding him tightly to his chest and walked them both to the bunk room he had slept in before. He put Lala down on the bunk across from his, tucking him in and thanking the  _ Ka’ra _ that it was still empty. This early in the evening the men were still in the major rec rooms or in the mess hall and Bacara couldn’t be more grateful for the timing. Not that he was ashamed of his son, but he didn’t want either of them to be food for the gossip mills. He curled into his bunk, facing his boy, and fell asleep there feeling more at peace than he had since before he had been taken by Davin.

***

The next morning brought Bacara taking Lala to meet with the rest of the 21st Nova’s on board the  _ Negotiator _ , the rest of the men present via holo call, to decide where they would live using the options Cody had given them. None of the 21st wanted to go back to Kamino, Lala included, so the men asked Bacara to tell Cody that they would be happy somewhere with nice weather and no large bodies of water, preferably all together. None of the men were willing to split from the  _ vod’e _ they had endured the front with. The  _ Vod’alor  _ took this in stride and contacted Queen Breha Organa, who had previously volunteered her planet of Alderaan as a home to any clone who was done with fighting. The newly pacifist policies being enacted by the Queen and her consort, Senator Bail Organa, appealed to the 21st. After years spent on the front lines, dying by the thousands and separated from their brothers, they were ready to retire from war and bloodshed. Lala curled into Bacara at the news that they would be gifted a plot of land at the feet of some of Alderaan’s mountains, within sight of Appenza Peak. Whatever supplies were necessary for their livelihoods of choice would be provided, so long as they contributed to Alderaan’s overall economy through whatever they chose to do.

Bacara agreed to the terms without hesitation, and the cheer from the men at the news was worth it. The ecstatic grin and tackle-hug that Lala gave him made it even better. Lala, uncovering an entrepreneurial streak, opened a stone mine at the foot of the mountains along with some of the other shinies, who were still able-bodied enough to do such physical labor. Bacara’s knee was far too damaged to allow such work in good conscience, so he took up a small farm to provide himself and Lala much-needed sustenance and began learning how to cook. When the advanced aging was cured, Lala swore to take the knowledge of Bacara’s tears to the grave with him. The two lived quietly together, father and son content to have each other in those early stages. After all the trauma they had endured together, the pain they had witnessed, they were content.

Lala came home one day with a carved boulder to go next to the entrance to their little farmstead home, made of stone from his mine and a crooked grin on his face. He placed it alone, not allowing Bacara to come see until he had finished. Then he dragged his father outside by the arm to show him what the sign read:

_ Welcome to Lala Land. _

He ducked the hand his  _ buir  _ swung at the back of his head, laughing hysterically. Through squinted eyes he could see Bacara grinning as well, though he was trying to hide it.

“You’re doing the dishes tonight for making me have to look at that.”

“Aw, but  _ Buir _ !”

Lala ran squawking after him, but the grin didn’t fade: Bacara hadn’t told him that he had to take it down.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my own little universe, for my own precious OC and his dad to get the love and affection they deserve.
> 
> Mando'a Translations in order of appearance:  
> Vod: brother (sibling, term for another clone)  
> Di’kut: idiot  
> Tat’ka (JP dialect): little brother (sibling)  
> Tat’e (JP dialect): brothers (siblings)  
> Jetii: Jedi  
> Tat (JP dialect): brother (sibling)  
> Shabuir: jerk (but extreme insult)  
> Di’kutla: stupid, useless  
> Jetii’kad: lightsaber  
> Kot: strength  
> Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la: not gone, merely marching far away  
> Manda: Mandalorian higher power  
> Dini’la: insane  
> Oya: let's hunt (in this context)  
> Vod’alor: brother-leader (in this context used as a title for overarching clone commander of the GAR)  
> Vod’e: siblings  
> Ad’ika: little/young child  
> Ad: child  
> Osik: crap (curse)  
> Ni ceta: I kneel (extreme groveling apology)  
> Vod’ika: little sibling  
> Paklalat: wit, eloquence, silver tongue  
> Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad: I know your name as my child  
> Buir: parent  
> Ka’ra: stars, ancient council of ruling kings


End file.
